


An Excess of Black Bile

by sagiow



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Mental Health Issues, More angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:20:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23100844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagiow/pseuds/sagiow
Summary: Where there had previously been an impulse within her core to place that first foot upon the floor, and the other one after it, and to push herself up and face the day and the challenges it would bring, there now was only emptiness.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	An Excess of Black Bile

It had started insidiously enough.

Waking up in the morning, just as tired as the night before. Nothing surprising in itself; there had been frequent interruptions, screams and moans making it through the constant creaks of floors and doors to disturb her too-short rest.

Shivers, sometimes uncontrollable shakes; it was Winter, wood was low, and many rooms were drafty. She’d grab a shawl, a scarf if she needed her arms free, and continue on with her rounds, hoping movement would warm her muscles, and keep the cold at bay.

A stiff neck, pressure behind her eye; she had brushed if off as too many evenings spent straining her sight, hunched uncomfortably over a flickering light to write long-winded letters home or read chapters on end to the word-craved soldiers.

Pain behind her shoulder, underneath her scapula, precisely where no contortion would allow her to reach and rub out; there was so few moments of comfort, so many manual labors, that she was due to be sore on occasion. Carrying that poor woman’s heavy luggage all the way from the hall and reaching to grab the very last bottle of laudanum from the very highest medicine cabinet surely had not helped the matter.

Heart racing, breath catching in her throat; warranted enough from the sudden influx of new patients following yet-another battle, to the newly discovered tissues, organs and fluids a novel procedure revealed, and then again when facing pile after pile of bandages to roll, of mouths to feed, of errands to run between the camp and hospital.

Lack of patience, annoyance at her companions; her favorite patient’s rambling stories now irritated to no end, and she had snapped back sharply at Sister Isabella’s bubbling fountain of gossip one night at dinner. The shock upon the other young woman’s face remained shamefully imprinted in her mind as she had eaten the following meals by herself, finding a certain solace in solitude after long days of forced cheerfulness. 

Always, more people to heal, tend and encourage. More that died, no matter what she did. More that poured through the doors, begging for their mothers, for mercy, for salvation from slavery.

Tirelessly, she worked, honing her craft, fighting against her revulsion and fear, against the disavowal of her family, against the disdain of Northern nurses and dainty doctors alike. Just to be of use, to help someone, anyone. To feel purpose again when the only one she had ever had turned obsolete with the first shots fired at Fort Sumter.

Some days, there would a light to guide her forward. A heartening smile, a heartfelt thanks, a quick laugh, an opened door that had always been shut before. Some days, but not most.

On most, there was only work, and more work, and death, and pain. For every man who left his bed standing, two would leave it feet first. For every word of encouragement, three would be barked back in reproach. For every ally at her side, four enemies would surround her. And these allies now evaporated as quickly as the good days did.

Nurse Mary was the first to go, drafted far away by typhoid fever, condemned never to come back. Lisette had come and gone, a soft breeze in the stifling summer heat. Jed Foster had left soon afterwards, thankfully not in her pursuit, but of the other woman who had captured his heart within these walls. And Henry… no, Chaplain Hopkins… she had thought she might have captured his, from the warmth of his voice, of his eyes upon her. But all warmth had frozen over now, and grew more distant every day. Belinda’s wedding had brought promises of Spring, but the following day, Winter had returned, colder than ever.

 _Weakness_ , he had called her. _Thief_ , her parents had said. _Traitor,_ her siblings echoed, far away from their forced exile.

The family she had forsaken for the one she had chosen, now all deserted her, one by one.

Matron barely had any words, adrift on the waves of maternal grief that would surge time and again, drowning her usual spirit in nostalgic melancholy. Even Anne had mostly grown silent, her coup successful, the tyrant deposed, but with both Foster and Hale gone, the former North, the latter West, no clear leadership had emerged to control the chaos that engulfed the hospital. Finding more common ground with Charlotte Jenkins’ pragmatic team than with the incompetent fools promoted to their posts, she gritted her teeth and worked on, spurring her nurses along, ignoring most of the commands the surgeons dared to utter, shouts often echoing across the hospital as the two factions faced-off at a standstill. Emma did her best to stay out of the way, keeping the peace and the patients’ interests above all, but her best was simply never enough.

Still she fought on, one task after the next, five at a time…but more soon no longer meant better. She would leave one room for another in search of something, but forget what it was when she got there. When writing letters, she would listen to her charge’s dictation, until her mind and pen stealthily drifted and the words on the page were no longer his. She would struggle all day against the yawns and the call of a soft pillow on which to rest her head, but when she finally collapsed from exhaustion in her bed at night, sleep would be nowhere to be found, only the spinning of her mind, the images of what she’d done wrong, of what would have to be redone again and again the next day and the one after. A mountain so large she could no longer see the stones forming it, only the immensity of its crushing weight upon her should she fail and fall.

And, day after day, this drove her, urged her to keep pushing, until one morning, it didn’t.

That day, she woke as on any other day: tired, sore, hungry. But where there had previously been an impulse within her core to place that first foot upon the floor, and the other one after it, and to push herself up and face the day and the challenges it would bring, there now was only emptiness. She stared at the wall, the water stain in the corner, the chipped paint on the moulding, the tear in the wallpaper, between the purple flower and the pink one. What were they, exactly? Not lilacs, nor lilies. The name never came. _Mother would know, and Alice as well,but I am hopeless in botany. Botany, and everything else._

So she did not move. She let the mountain crumble and tumble down and bury her. The fire had long since gone out in the hearth as well as in her heart, and she did not feel the cold. She was too numb, past all feeling, pleasant or painful. She wondered if that was how the patients felt, in these few seconds before chloroform took over their mind as well as their body, and they fell heavily into dreamless sleep.

She wished for nothing more: to sleep, slip into nothingness, for a time short or long or infinite. She closed her eyes, and there were no images to assault her, to call her to arms, to pick up the standards her friends had been forced to drop along the way, that she had been too weak to raise back up. There was only darkness, and silence, and a heavy emptiness. Or was it an empty heaviness? Either way, it was all she had and she let it embrace her, let it carry her off.

How long did it take for them to notice her absence, for a soft knock on her door to draw her out of her slumber? The light had shifted upon the flowers on the wall, the colors along with it, purple now edging to mauve, pink, to red, but she could not bring herself to analyze when, and how, and why. Neither did she answer. The knock repeated itself, accompanied with a call, a voice she knew from faraway but could not place. The doorknob turned, the hinge whined, footsteps came closer, around her bed, to her side.

“Miss Green? Have you taken ill?”

She only blinked, slowly. _Lilacs or lilies?_

There was a palm pressed gently to her forehead, a statement as to lack of fever, a repeated enquiry as to health. Blink. 

_Lavender, perhaps?_

Slowly, knees bent to the floor, a face appeared. A kind, concerned face, below a creased brow. Eyes that claimed her own away from that wall of forgotten flowers, into deep pools of worry she had so long longed to see again, although never filled with such sorrow.

Her sight grew dim. Blink. Her sight cleared, her cheeks grew wet, the tears trailing down into her hair, more following in the rivers she had not even been aware were flowing from her eyes. Fingers reached softly to wipe them away, and despite herself, she recoiled at the touch, both scalding and freezing at once, both so desired and feared. This hand she had dreamt of holding once more now so very real upon her skin.

“Emma, dearest…. What’s wrong?”

_Nothing. Everything. You. It wasn't supposed to be you. Not now. Not like this._

It was all she could do to shake her head imperceptibly, the motion muffled by her pillow. It was all she could do to whisper: “I don’t…” , and even that was too much. 

But it was all the other had to do to say no more, and nod, and take her hand, and silently stay by her side.

For once, it was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> For Wednesday WIP day  
> Hey, what can I say: some days call for writing borderline crackships engaging in borderline risqué dialogue, some for shameless, sickeningly sweet domestic fluff, and some others for angsty whirly melancholic introspective pieces. Bar's open, pick your poison, mix'em up, but just know we're all out of plot. _À votre santé!_


End file.
